The living room smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. A soft classical melody floated from a nearby radio, and on the walls hung framed memories—wedding photos, birthday celebrations, and holiday snapshots. Evelyn sat on the floral-patterned couch, holding a steaming cup of tea in both hands as she watched Ron and Autumn move about with warm hospitality.
They had welcomed her in the moment she mentioned Sam.
"I was a friend of your son's," she had said at the door, heart pounding but face composed, clutching a fabricated past she remembered all too clearly from another timeline, it's Ron who mentioned their lost son, and now Evelyn approch them with this pretense of being their son's friend who had unfortunately died this year.
The moment she uttered his name, their expressions had changed—grief flashing in their eyes like a shadow across sunlight. But along with it came softness.
"You knew our Sam?" Autumn had asked, her voice trembling a little.
